Bad Boy's Bard, page 24
“Not a harmonic. A pulse.” Niall leaped to his feet and strode over to where Mal was looming over Fionbarr. “It’s the binding stone, isn’t it? This is your doing.”
Fionbarr bared his teeth, seeming unconcerned about Mal’s sword at his jugular. “Yours too. If you’d taken responsibility for once in your life, sacrificed for the good of all—”
“Good of all?” Niall grabbed the front of Fionbarr’s pretentious robes. “Don’t you mean the good of you? And it looks like I wasn’t the only sacrifice you’d planned. Stop the spell.”
Fionbarr glared at Niall. “Why should I? Magic has its own momentum, and since you and your histrionics blocked the second half of the binding, you’ll need to live with the consequences.” He glanced toward the Queen, a sly smile on his face. “Although you might want to move her to a more convenient location. Once she takes root, there’s no going back.”
Niall let go of Fionbarr and spun to face the Kendricks. “We have to find the stone and neutralize it.”
Mal eyed the pile of rubble that used to be the altar. “How do you propose we do that?”
Niall dropped to his knees. “We dig.” Gareth started to rise, but Niall motioned him to stay put. “Not you, love. Keep singing. Leave the stone to us.” Niall began to sort through the debris.
Fionbarr cackled. “What do you imagine you can do, even if you find it? It’s beyond any fae intervention now, even mine.”
“We’ll see about that,” Niall muttered. But Danu’s tits, the altar had been huge. It would take hours, maybe days, to unearth the tiny stone. He’d need an army of—
“Master?” Peadar touched Niall’s elbow. “If you will permit?”
Niall’s eyes widened at the flock of lesser fae at Peadar’s back. “You’re all right? All of you?”
“Yes, Highness. And willing to serve our true Queen and King.”
“Then let’s do this.”
Peadar beckoned to his fellows, and the lesser fae moved forward in orderly rows, each carefully taking a single piece of the shattered altar, then moving aside for the next rank. Even though their burdens were small, there were so many of them that the pile diminished amazingly fast.
They’d cleared only a quarter of it before a brownie cried out, backing away and pointing to the sullen glow of the binding stone. Niall reached out to take it.
“Don’t touch that!” Mal barked. “It’s a bloody Druid’s Glass. If it can turn the Queen into a tree, who knows what it’ll do to you?”
Niall rounded on him. “How are we supposed to neutralize it if we can’t even touch it?”
“You can’t touch it. But a druid can.”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, we don’t have a druid in attendance, so unless you’ve got one in your pocket—”
“It happens I do.” Mal sheathed his sword. “Bryce.”
“Bryce isn’t here.”
“No.” Mal pressed his fist to his chest, over his fae center. “But he’s here. And that’ll do.” He caught the attention of a nearby Daoine Sidhe and pointed to Fionbarr. “Watch this blighter, would you?” He joined Niall, staring down at the stone. “Being a druid’s familiar isn’t a one-way street, boyo. I get as much out of it as I give.”
Niall cast a harried glance at Gareth, who was still crooning over the Queen. The bark had grown halfway up her throat. Alun had joined Eamon, his muscles bunching as he held the Queen’s legs away from the ground. Oak and bloody thorn. Her feet were throwing out shoots, attempting to root—through Alun’s thighs. “Then you’d better get as much as you can—right bloody now.”
Mal’s eyes popped wide. “Shite. Alun—”
“Don’t worry about me,” Alun said between clenched teeth. “I can handle pain. But hurry. If the bark covers her mouth and nose—”
“Right.” Mal flexed his hands. “We need to geld this bloody thing somehow. If I had the least fecking clue—”
“Pitch,” Niall said, earning a what-the-blazes-do-you-know-about-it glare from Mal. “Bryce said the other stone was coated in it.”
“Grand. You happen to have a bit of that in your pocket?”
“No, wise arse, but a forest-dwelling fae could fetch it instantly. A dryad or a—”
“Master?” Heilyn popped up at Mal’s elbow, their children clinging to their shoulders.
“Bauchan.” Niall saluted Heilyn, who bobbed their head in response.
They held out a palm, offering Mal a ball of black goo that smelled strongly of tar and pine. “Will this answer?”
Mal shook his head with a low chuckle. “Always on the spot with the necessities, you are. Brilliant, mate. Thanks.”
Score one point in his favor—he’s not an arsehole to the lesser fae.
Stooping, Mal used the sticky pitch to pick up the binding stone, then shoved the stone into the center of the ball with a twig. As soon as the stone was completely encased, he accepted a maple leaf from Heilyn, wrapped it up, and stowed it in his belt pouch. Niall shivered—he wouldn’t want the miserable thing that close to his own bollocks, not after it had been activated. Apparently Mal was made of sterner stuff.
Behind them, Eamon cried out and Alun uttered a muffled curse. Ah, shite. Were they too late? Niall turned, fully expecting to see his brother bowed in grief, but instead, Eamon’s smile was as bright as a new day—echoed as it was by the Queen’s. She was conscious again, and though she was still decidedly tree-ish, the bark was receding, her fingers once more pale and graceful, her feet no longer attempting to burrow into the earth through Alun Kendrick’s flesh.
Gareth continued to sing, his voice rising in strength and volume, and the Queen’s recovery accelerated until she was fully fae again.
Eamon clutched her to his chest and buried his face in her hair. She raised a barely trembling hand to his cheek, and it was as if every fae on the plateau held their breaths as Gareth’s final note died away.
“Damn,” Mal murmured. “I still can’t get over it. Her Majesty in love. You’d never have caught her petting Rodric Luchullain that way. She—shite.” He tensed, scanning the fae who were clustered around Eamon and the Queen. “Rodric. He’s scarpered. Alun, how could you—”
Alun stood, wincing, blood staining his breeches. Good thing his husband is an achubydd. “I had a choice to make, Mal, as did you. Besides, I note that Fionbarr is missing too.”
“He is? But I told that bloke to—” Mal ran a hand through his hair. “Shite. Handed him right over to one of his minions, didn’t I?”
Niall moved past Mal to stand next to Eamon. “Tiarnach’s gone as well. I suppose we all made our choices tonight.” He smiled tiredly at Gareth. “I can’t say I’m sorry, although I don’t trust those bastards not to make trouble again.”
“You’ve all done more than I could hope, so please, no self-recrimination.” Eamon helped the Queen to her feet.
She tottered a moment before Peadar handed her a staff to lean on. No, not a staff: Govannon’s spear. She blinked at it once before planting it firmly in the earth. “The traitors may have escaped, but that is of little consequence. We all live. Faerie lives. As we are united, we can await another day for justice.”
Gareth cleared his throat. “As to that . . .” He unslung Herne’s horn from his shoulder and held it in his palm for a moment, head bowed. He slanted a glance at Niall with a wry smile, then held the horn out—to Eamon. “We have another option, Your . . . Your Majesty.”
Niall caught his breath. If Gareth was willing to accept Eamon as King, as someone worthy of fealty, as someone to trust with Herne’s fucking horn, then he must truly have forsaken his Unseelie prejudices. And truly forgiven me.
Eamon took the horn. “Is this—”
“Herne’s horn.” The Queen ran a finger down its burnished length. “If we sound this, we call up the Wild Hunt. Those we mark as its prey will not escape. Your father, Eamon—”
“I know.” Eamon caught Niall’s gaze and raised an eyebrow. Asking permission. Niall nodded. “But I’ve given him chances enough. Let Herne deal with him, with all of them. Traitors and conspirators are his rightful prey.” He raised the horn to his lips and blew a long, echoing note.
Before it died away completely, a disturbance arose in the woods. All the fae who’d been dancing scuttled away, creating a clear path to where Eamon stood with the Queen. In the shadows under the trees, Niall could make out a tall figure, taller than Eamon and made taller yet by the antlers on his head. His eyes glowed gold, and behind him, the underbrush was lit with dozens of pinpricks of red light—his hounds, the Cwn Annwn, awaiting his command.
“You summoned me.” Herne’s voice, impossibly deep, reverberated in the Circle. “Such things are not done lightly.”
The Queen stepped forward, Govannon’s spear still in her hand. “We call you forth in full knowledge of what we ask.”
Herne tilted his head back as if scenting the air. “Treachery in the air. It calls to me, more than the horn. But . . .” He leveled his amber gaze at them. “A former king? My powers do not extend so far.”
Niall stepped forward to stand next to the Queen. “Her Majesty holds the answer to that. A spear, forged by Govannon himself, to strike true against any adversary.”
The hounds growled until Herne raised a hand. “Govannon hasn’t forged a spear since the death of Dylan of the Waves.”
“He did this time.”
The Queen flipped the spear with practiced skill. “Will you accept our charge?”
When Herne nodded, she flung the spear toward him. He caught it easily. “You’ll see me again when the deed is done.” He turned and vanished into the trees, followed by the hounds. A moment later, the pack bayed, the sign they’d caught scent of their prey.
Niall gripped Eamon’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. I know you loved him in your way—”
“You mistake. At one time, I felt I had a duty to him, but that ended the day he condemned you.” Eamon glanced at the Queen. “My love and devotion is granted only to those who deserve it. For now, we have a new world to celebrate, and it begins with a handfasting. My lady, if you would?” He held out his hand, and she took it. The two of them paced in a stately procession down the path opened by Herne’s arrival, the assembled fae falling in behind them.
As Alun limped after them, Mal took his arm. “Looks like you could use a little of David’s attention. Shall I fetch him for you?”
“I’d like to say I can handle this, but if you wouldn’t mind.” Alun glanced at Gareth. “Perhaps you could request Hunter’s Moon to join us too? That is, if Gareth is willing to perform at the ceilidh?”
Gareth wrapped his arm around Niall’s waist. “I’d be honored. But now that the gates are realigned, I’ll fetch them myself. You two go on.”
Niall leaned into Gareth’s embrace—an embrace offered with no lies between them—until they were alone in the Circle. Eamon had found his partner, Gareth his full confidence. Both of them had claimed their true place in a united Faerie. Someday, maybe I’ll figure out what my true place is.
“Will you help me?” Gareth’s breath ghosted against Niall’s neck. “To collect the band?”
“I’ll come if you like, but they’re your mates.”
“Yes, but the last time I saw them, I was a dick. It didn’t end well. I could use a little backup.”
Niall smiled and brushed Gareth’s cheek with his knuckles. Maybe Faerie is irrelevant. We’ve forged our own true place—with each other. “I’ll always have your back, love. Now let’s go bag ourselves a band.”
Gareth laid down his guitar, and signaled to the rest of Hunter’s Moon that they could take a break. “You’ve earned your mead buzz, Hamish.”
“Too right. Next time you book us a fae wedding gig, give us more than two moments’ notice, eh, mate?” He rose from behind a row of toms. “I’m fair parched. What kind of tucker do you suppose they lay out for a royal splicing, eh?”
As the band packed away their instruments, the spectral music that filled the glade at the Queen’s command swelled to fill the silence. It was more than a fanfare this time—almost like an entire orchestra. And it seemed to be coming from . . . Gareth burst into laughter.
“What?” Tiff asked. “Now that you’re finally at the point of enjoying jokes, you could at least share them with us.”
“Ever wonder where the music came from when we weren’t playing?” He pointed at the trees surrounding the glade. Peering through the leaves were a host of small, nearly transparent fae, all of them holding tiny instruments. “They’ve always been invisible before.” Thanks to Niall’s insistence, they weren’t any longer.
“Figured it was just fae elevator music.” Hamish tilted his head as he grinned up at the little musicians. “Not bad, are they? They could use an update in their set list though. Maybe I’ll have a word.”
He wandered off toward a nearby linden tree and peered up, apparently catching the attention of a rather surly looking lavender fae playing a sackbut. Whatever he said deepened its frown, and it blatted a discordant note directly in Hamish’s face, which caused his ears to shift immediately to kangaroo form. Hamish gaped for a moment, then burst out laughing, twitching his ears once before shifting them back to human.
It was tough to smirk with a sackbut at your lips, but the lavender fae managed it before dismissing Hamish completely to return to its tune. The tempo, however, picked up significantly.
Gareth hopped down from the dais. The glade had expanded exponentially to hold everyone at the handfasting ceilidh, which appeared to be all the land-based fae, Seelie and Unseelie both. The result was a bit . . . startling. Gareth had never seen a trow dance before. He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to see it again, but he had to give them credit for enthusiasm, if not for grace.
In a way, they reminded him of David, who couldn’t dance to save his life. Although he did that once—and started the chain of events that saved us all. Alun’s redemption. My reconciliation with Alun. Mal’s journey with Bryce, which led me back to Niall at last. As far as Gareth was concerned, David was the finest dancer in any world.
Now, David was swaying in the center of the glade, locked safely in Alun’s arms so he couldn’t damage himself or others with his flailing. The look on Alun’s face . . . Goddess, Gareth couldn’t remember when he’d ever seen his staid, dutiful eldest brother so at peace.
He searched the crowd for Niall, and spotted him at the far side of the glade, standing next to Mal, laughing with a brownie in a leather apron. Mal had bauchan young on either shoulder and one perched on top of his head, clinging to his hair. Only days ago, Gareth’s first instinct at that sight would have been to charge, dislodging and scattering the Unseelie. But we no longer have Unseelie—or Seelie either. We’re all simply fae.
Bryce was standing next to them, in earnest conversation with a trio of dryads, who were regarding him, big-eyed, with something between terror, respect, and outright adoration. They’d probably never seen a druid this close before. As another repercussion of the Convergence and the odd alliances it bred, a druid—this particular druid—was welcome in Faerie, and the fae had begun a cautious exploration of what that meant.
Regardless of the rocky beginning of his relationship with Bryce, Gareth trusted him to have the best interests of Faerie at heart. He was a good man—one who deserved Mal.
Gareth skirted the trees, dodged the enthusiastic revelers until he reached Niall and Mal. “Hey.”
Niall grinned at him and pulled him in for a kiss. “Hey yourself. Have you met Peadar?” He put a hand on the brownie’s shoulder. “He’s one of my best friends.”
Peadar ducked his head. “Give over, Highness, do. I did no more than my duty.”
“Bugger that. You went far beyond, and I don’t forget.”
Gareth extended a hand. “Thank you. For watching out for him.” Peadar blinked up at Gareth with the same expression the dryads were still training on Bryce, taking Gareth’s hand gingerly. But when he would have bent forward to kiss it, Gareth altered his grip and shook instead. “You owe me nothing more than friendship, Peadar. But I’d be grateful if you granted me that.”
Peadar bobbed his head. “With pleasure, Bard. You saved our lives.”
“No. We saved ourselves—and each other. Exactly as it should be.”
Peadar bowed and scurried away. Mal chuckled, causing the young bauchan using him as a perch to squeal. “I think you intimidate him, brother.”
Gareth sighed. “I suppose it’s inevitable. But I hope it won’t last.”
Mal surveyed the crowd. Although many species of fae were dancing simultaneously in the circle, not many of them could be said to be dancing together. “I expect we’ll return to some form of our old contentious ways before long. We’re fae, after all.” He glanced at Bryce, who was apparently reading the palm of one of the dryads. “Well, most of us are.”
“I never told you what Bryce did while you were trapped in here.”
“Caused a stir, I reckon. He’s not one to sit idly by, my bloke.”
“He never stopped trying to find a way to get to you. To rescue you and Alun and Faerie.” Gareth glanced sidelong at Mal. “To make me see beyond my own nose.”
Mal snorted. “Aye, well, you, me, and Alun—can’t say our noses are so small. Sometimes we all need help to see past them.”
“He . . . he has a bigger heart and a bigger vision than I do.”
“Nah. It’s just his job. He’s a druid.”
“Don’t discount it. He loves you.”
Mal grinned. “I know. Believe me, I know.” He sauntered over and dropped a kiss on Bryce’s neck. Bryce glanced up, and the look that passed between them made Gareth’s breath catch.
“Remarkable, eh?” Niall wrapped his arm around Gareth’s waist. “All the devotion on display tonight. Eamon and Caitrìona—”
“Don’t you mean the King and Queen?”
Niall’s lips quirked in that familiar sly smile. “Nah. I think we’ve earned the right to call them by name—at least in private.” He nodded at where the two of them were sitting together near the dais, apparently with eyes only for each other. “I think they need a bit of privacy themselves, and speaking of that . . .” Niall let go of Gareth’s waist and held out his hand instead. “Come for a walk with me?”
